


Blood & Lilacs

by thatcrazyhippie



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Past Abuse, Past Lives, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatcrazyhippie/pseuds/thatcrazyhippie
Summary: When the Library sends Jake and Cassie on a mission to find the missing chestplate to complete the armor of the Unknown Knight that stands, regal and tall in the corner of the archive room, they soon discover that what they're actually doing is discovering their own story as it played out in the Arthurian era, centuries ago. They've lived dozens of lives over the years, and Jenkins has witnessed them all - the enduring love every incarnation, every person they've ever been. But it is the knight and his lady of blood and lilacs that will bring them together."I will find you, in the next life and every life after, I will find you. Always you."
Relationships: Cassandra Cillian/Jacob "Jake" Stone
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. Heavy is the Burden

“Do you repeat For Queen and Country like every other Knight, as if those very words are enough to breathe life back into your lungs if you were to die?” 

“If I die, then I am gone from this life. I am loyal to whom I serve but I am no fool.” he breathes the words into the icy space between them. “To die is to depart from this life, resurrection is a mere myth perpetuated by those, who deign miracles as the work of a deity they have not laid eyes upon.” 

“You are of little faith, Sir.” big blue eyes widen a fraction, in what he supposes is surprise. “Most knights perpetuate their god as if he is some omnipotent deity, in whose game of life, they are merely pawns.” 

“Perhaps, he exists.” he shrugs casually, steady voice juxtaposed against the rattle of armor, chain-mail and metal plating. “Or, perhaps, he is, as you say, a mere myth perpetuated by Knights, who wish to cling some age old platitude in order to feel as though dying on the battlefield does not mean dying alone.” 

“Do you not care about such platitudes and myths?” she implores, brushing her thumb down the tight lacing of her corset in the small of her back. The rough texture reminds her of this conversation; the unfurling of a knight, so confident in battle, but so insecure beneath his armor of metal and blood. 

“I prefer reality.” blue eyes darken; a storm hovering above a knight, too jaded and too broken to believe he will die a loved human being. “I was never one to gild the edges. Reality is far too black and white and to gild it is to give the appearance of a luxury that does not exist. At least, not for me.” 

“And, what luxury is that, Sir?” the lady in the lilac dress has big, pretty eyes and a pale face made of bare porcelain, refreshingly void of the stark whiteness most ladies of the court paraded around in on a daily basis. It weakens a man. 

It weakens him.

It finds the nick in his armor and presses through, applying just enough pressure to make him pliant, to finish unfurling the knot of insecurity in his stomach. 

"Love." he dips his head, eyes absently searching for the phantom weapon pressing into him, for the cold blade of a sword or dagger but he finds none. The soft intonation of her voice, a lilting thing that perfectly matched the visage before him, had done him in, had pulled open the thus far non-existent entrances to the forts he'd built to protect himself. He allows himself a lingering glance at her countenance, wanting to remember the lady of the court that managed what even his own blood had not. Pale face, pale eyes, deep red curls, blood spilling over her shoulders in silky copper tinged ringlets. Copper where the sun touches the curve of the strands. His eyes follow the swirl of blood in the sun, sunk against pale skin and pale purple silk, reveling in the color, allowing it to bleed into his black and white world. "Lady, I am not such a fool as my brothers as to believe that I will die a loved knight." 

"Are you not loved, Sir?" another prod, another glance down to look for a phantom blade. She smiles sympathetically at his loss of armor. "Nothing to fear with me."

"That is what I fear, ma'am." he confesses hoarsely. "That all the forts I have built will crumble into dust at your feet and you will see, it is not a king hiding from an enemy but a boy, a mere peasant, cowering from the world."

"I will not judge." the reassurance is hollow, at least, to him. To someone who does not know what a life free of judgement truly is. The truth is everyone has judged him, for being an educated peasant, for being a decent fighter, though most simply spat something about him being brute and ignored him, tugging tiny, teary eyed children away from him before they could ask questions, their parents did not want them seeking answers to. 

"It is not judgement I fear, but silence." he finally tells her in a voice that feels foreign in his throat, tastes like all the bitterness and vulnerability he’d tried so hard to hide, and his eyes sting, unable to fathom that a lady such as her could ever want to know the truth about a broken young knight. 

“Well,” she is the picture of prim and proper, folding her skirt away in her palms and turning toward him. “It rather seems to me like instead of protecting yourself, you have imprisoned yourself. You deem the world an enemy because it is easier to protect yourself from the perceived hatred. You do not allow color into your gray prison because you feel unworthy of joy. But, Sir, are you not as full of platitudes as your brothers in arms?” 

“What?” 

“You hold onto the silly notion that a gray prison is the only way to protect yourself,” she spreads her arms in a semi-circle, pointing out the knights duelling in the enclosed arena. “All the while you speak of your brothers-in-arms holding onto such a silly notion as a deity. That is a fine hypocrisy you have but it cannot hold up on the battlefield. You will not die alone because you are unloved, but because you do not allow yourself to feel loved. One would think you enjoy the misery.” 

“Lady Chloe - “ 

But, is she right? Up until now - the truth of his own hypocrisy had been easily ignored. In fact, he did so regularly, usually with the assistance of mead and a wench in his bed for a night. But, he certainly did not enjoy his misery, though, he never sought to truly banish it. 

“- it is only because I know not of what love truly is.” he confesses, but that same foreign feeling lingers in his mouth. A bitterness dissolving into the tang of regret, of never bothering to learn love as most do. "My mother and father could never be bothered with me, the way they engaged my siblings." 

"How many do you have?" 

"Two. An older brother, Alexander and a younger sister, Thalia." the memories walk a tight rope above the edge of his fortress, with nothing beneath to prevent an ugly death, should he choose to end the strain of keeping them balanced between his heart and his brain. "My sister is their pride and joy, a princess to a king. My brother is the rightful heir to the throne. But the kingdom will fall in time. Just like Rome." 

"Then, perhaps it is not a kingdom." Chloe sees the world so differently than he does. She sees vivid splashes of bold, beautiful color. And, it bleeds into the worldview of those, who might have gone colorblind from years and years of war. It spreads, sinks in, and twists a man so that he might feel refreshed and renewed after years of being worn out. “It is a rose.” she looks up at him, a restraint darkening her eyes. “You have to appreciate the beauty of the rose, not take pride in it, for it is not your creation. You are merely the caretaker. You cannot take credit for that, which is not your doing.I have found that the thorns of pride are sharp enough to make even angels bleed for their sins.” 

“It is a dead rose, Lady Chloe.” he murmurs, looking at her through half-lidded eyes, lashes forming dark crescent moons against sharp, high cheekbones. “The land which my father holds dearer than even his children is a rotting corpse. It decays a little with each passing year. The plot where we are to bury them when they pass is a pit of mud and bone.” 

“I do apologize, Sir James.” 

“It is my worry, not yours, Lady Chloe.” he finally looks at her without the blur of lashes and tears to skew the vision before him. “I should apologize for laying a burden at your feet that is far too big for your delicate shoulders and certainly not yours to bear.” 

“Fret not, Sir.” Chloe giggles, big eyes sparkling, clearly beguiled with this handsome knight. “For I would not want a single burden on your shoulders either.” 

The breath leaves his lungs in a single exhale. 

Sir James would soon find this to be the first in a series of surprises that would take the wind from his sails upon the sweeping entrance of Lady Chloe, a lady of blood and lilac, into his life, both on and off of the battlefield. 

… 

The Bible is a precious artifact, or so Flynn says, but how much of what he says is wholesale truth is questionable on a good day. It's an ancient looking thing, with leather the shade of ripened figs, and pages with soft gradients of cream and caramel, well preserved, sure, but what symbolism it could hold for a Library filled with old evils, wizardry, and all the things the Bible spoke against - Jake really isn't sure. 

"It's too preserved to be anything sooner than Edwardian." he mutters to a half-hearted Eve, one ear on him, the other listening for her Indiana Jones-wannabe. "It's probably between one hundred-ten to one-twenty. No way it's older." 

Eve eyes her fellow Librarian; the fine art of subtlety escapes even the art genius, or maybe, he wasn't trying to hide how uncomfortable he is with the artifact. He tugs the magnification headpiece off and tosses it to the side, absently rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension.

"Yo, Baird, you listenin'?" Jake calls her attention away from the tension lingering in his thick frame with a frustrated snap. "I got other artifacts to age out of the archive room and into their proper museum." 

"I'm listening, Stone. Edwardian, got it." Eve grins at her little brother by proxy - the Library - tipping her head to the side. "So, you wanna tell me why you're so uncomfortable around this Bible, you can barely stand to look at it." 

"I'm just not the good little Christian boy I used to be." Jake absently brushes rough fingers over the surface of the leather binding. It's aged down to a velvety softness but knowing its contents is what makes him wildly uncomfortable. "I don't like reminders."

"It's a book, Stone." Eve reminds him; her tone is gentle but there's a sternness in her eyes. "Just like any other book in here. The fact that this is an artifact doesn't change the fact that it is pages bound in leather." 

"You never took a Bible upside the head while your daddy was waitin' to take a belt to your ass, either." Jake grumbles, reaching for his headgear and log book and brushing past her, roughly bumping shoulders, and growling something as he continues on to the archive room. "I have work to do." 

Eve sighs, crestfallen at the lack of progress in cracking the hard exterior that formed Jake Stone's person. She knew his childhood in Oklahoma hadn't been the best but she didn't know to what extent. 

"Is Jake around?" Cassandra inquires timidly, sneaking into Eve's peripheral vision. She shakes a white paper bag and giggles a soft, "I brought his favorite tacos." 

"He just went to the archive room." Eve sighs motioning in the direction Jake had disappeared in. "We had a spat." 

"About what?" 

Eve jerks her thumb to the Bible, still lying beneath the lamp on her desk. “That Bible.” 

The shift in the redhead is immediate; a slightly more subtle roll of her shoulders, but the discomfort is still obvious. It wouldn’t be so disconcerting if her already large eyes didn’t widen and the dilation of her pupils didn’t stand out against the light blue irises. 

“Oh, don’t tell me, you too?” she can’t help but roll her eyes. 

Cassandra chooses to ignore her fellow Librarian and continue on to the archive room where she finds Jacob studiously examining an artifact, looking for indicators of age and degradation, any clue to how old it truly is. She knocks very gingerly on the doorframe, careful not to frighten him. “Jake?” 

Jacob looks up, magnification gear still wrapped around his head, and offers her a smile. It’s reluctant and tired and she can still see the tension locking his jaw. “Hi Cass.” 

“I brought tacos?” she holds up the paper bag and gives it a little rattle, letting him hear the rustle of taco wrappers and salsa bowls inside. “From that truck around the corner. Extra lime, just the way you like.” 

“Thanks, baby.” Jake gives her a real smile, this time. “I could use some food.” 

“How about we eat outside? It’s a nice day out.” Cassie tilts her head toward the door. “You look like you could use a break and it’s kind of stale and musty in here.” 

“I thought you liked the smell of the Annex?” Jake teases, pulling his gear off, and setting it down on the desk near the dagger he’d been aging. His eyes shimmer in the dim light, still so, so blis "Something about the smell of old books and vanilla?" 

Cassie just hums and moves away from him, using the scent of fresh tacos to lure him away from his work. She’ll never know it isn’t actually the food that entices him, but the sight of her long, creamy legs in those shorts made of lilac lace and soft satin. 

His twisting stomach, from the Bible and the dagger finally settles. 

… 

“You know,” Cassie finally speaks when Jake is unwrapping his second taco. It’s a pretty basic taco - meat, onion, and cilantro and he dresses it with salsa, while peering at her over the open container. “I wasn’t raised with any sort of religion. I’m not sure I believe God is real.” 

Jake pauses, salsa teetering precariously on the lip of the styrofoam container, threatening to drop, the way his heart has threatened to make a sudden, stunning relocation to his stomach. “Cassie…” 

“Eve told me about the Bible.” Cassie explains, balling up the paper wrapper of her already-consumed taco. “She wouldn’t tell me why it was such a big deal but, uh, I don’t have to ask, do I?” 

“I’ve never been so uncomfortable with an artifact.” Jake grumbles, setting his taco down on the paper plate between his spread legs. While Cassie sits primly on the edge of the concrete bench overlooking a sprawling garden of shrubbery and calendulas, tulips, and a spray of unidentifiable wildflowers, he’d chosen to straddle it, finding it more suitable to eating without needing to balance a soggy paper plate on his lap. “I guess I thought I could treat it as another book,” he wrings a napkin between his hands, any traces of grease long soaked up by the weakened cotton. “I thought I could forget what a Bible meant.” 

"It can be just a book, Jake." Cassie reminds him gently, "If that's all you want it to be. It can be exactly that." 

"It'll never be just a book, Cassie." the sharp sting of his words is not lost on her. She recognizes the pain for what it is - pain. Trauma. "Not to me." 

"Why?" her gentle inquiry makes him feel less like she's seeking to lay him out bare and leave him for the wolves, but instead as if she intends to secret the information away in a vault and not make mention of it, again. 

"I believed in God for a long time. I was raised with Him," the story is painful, but he spills it as if he is telling some funny story from his childhood. "But Pops was a tough man, a strict man, and any perceived wrong-doing from me meant a beating with a belt and a Bible." 

"From you?" she has always wondered if he had siblings or if he was an only child. 

"I'm the middle - the spare, really." he finally looks up at her, at soft blue eyes and strands of cayenne spread across her shoulders, teasing her eyelashes - he likes the new bangs, they draw attention down to her gorgeous eyes. He likes the smooth paleness of her face, free of makeup, and splattered with the faintest freckles. "I, uh, I have an older brother Xander and a younger sister Natalie."

"How does that…?" maybe, she doesn't understand family dynamics, coming from a home with no siblings, but shouldn’t the youngest be the spare, not the handsome Stone in the middle of the pack. Not that any child should be the spare but logically speaking, Cassie would assume that any child coming after however many were planned would fall into the role of spare. 

"The oldest boy is the heir to the Stone family fortune and the first girl is the proper matron of society." he sneers, grimacing at the bitterness that clings to the words. "Natalie is the baby. She inherited some of the money and a proper social standing, enough to get a decent husband." 

“Sounds miserable.” Cassie sighs sympathetically. 

“It’s why I left.” he finally softens his posture, lowering his shoulders. His body shifts, spine curving, leaning into her presence. “My brother and sister - they like their cozy lifestyle. Ma’s not strong enough to leave but me...I always knew I’d leave.” 

“So, you did.” 

Something in his stomach twists, feels like a sharp point digging in, hoping to carve out the parts of him he tries to hide from her. He  _ never  _ wants to show her those pieces of himself, he never wants to lay that burden at her feet, she’s too beautifully whole, too confident in herself to ever bear the weight of such a load. 

“And, for a while, I had my faith but sometimes,” Jake exhales slowly, “Sometimes it feels like it’s all a myth. Like, the miracles weren’t miraculous and the sovereign God of the Bible is just another dictator waiting to strike us down when we step out of line.” 

“Like your father did you?” if it were anyone else, it might be considered out of line to ask Jacob Stone such a question, but this is Cassie and she tends to be able to poke the sleeping bear a bit more than anyone else. “When did the line blur between the God in that Bible and the father who hit you with it?” 

“When I said I wanted to leave and he took me out of his will.” Jake admits; his voice is hoarse, thin with the strain of even having this conversation, and his eyes brim with tears, blurring, separating Cassie into three, and merging her back together. “When I was given the freedom to do what I wanted, as long as what I wanted was to stay in the family business.” 

“Jake…” 

“In the Stone family, freedom is a length of rope. Isaac wants you to hang yourself with it.” Jacob explains, absently curling the palm of his hand around his throat, scratching with the rough pads of his fingers as if a noose could be felt there. “Because if you do, if you leave and it doesn’t work out, he’ll manipulate you into crawling home, and you’ll have proven his point.” 

"But, you didn't, Jake." but, oh God, has he made her feel like she can't breathe. "You got away." 

"I know. And I know that my father's business is a rotting corpse." Jake grins and it's sadistic, if it's anything, like there should be blood slipping between the cage of his teeth. "By the time, he's done, there'll be nothing left but a rusted out oil rig and abandoned tunnels. Maybe, they'll bury him in one. Lord knows they buried everything else that did 'em wrong down there." 

“I feel like I need to be apologizing, Jake.” Cassie’s gentle voice is a wave of relief pouring over him. 

“No, baby - you, you didn’t do anything. I should be apologizing to you.” Jake finally looks up at her, blue eyes dark, but far calmer than they had been previously - when his world cracked open and the contents spilled forth at Cassie’s feet. “I shouldn’t - I shouldn’t have put all that on you, Cassie.” 

“But, you shouldn’t keep it locked away, either, Jake.” she reaches across the bench to touch his arm. She waits a moment for his composure to return before tilting her head in the direction of the Annex. “Why don’t we go get back to work? Bring your dagger to my lab. I’m interested to see if it is as old as the taste of the word suggests.” 

“What?” Jake’s face scrunches in confusion - it is so very rare he actually understands half of what she says and this is definitely one of those times. 

“The word dagger - it tastes coppery, orange, like rust and blood.” she swallows hard around her explanation, eyes cloudy with a coming storm of synesthesia. “I’d like to know when it dates back to, to see if that might give context to the taste. It’s funny - it never tasted like that until I saw you with that one.” 

Jake is confused but tosses the remnants of lunch in the nearest trash can and follows her back to the Annex, to hopefully get a better explanation for her synesthesia than rust and blood can provide. It might explain why he’d felt such a sharp tug in his lower abdomen when he’d touched the leather and metal weapon. 

Cassie seemed to be able to explain a lot. 


	2. The Dagger & The Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Chloe have a long talk about death, intelligence, and other languages.

A grassy knoll, still damp with a combination of morning dew and the previous night’s rainfall, unfolds into a landscape of greenery and fresh, dark earth. His armor is mostly element safe, sure, but he’s certain those in ranks far above his own would put a permanent strike on his military record if it were to rust.

“Do you always contemplate wet grass or is today just a special occasion?” a soft voice teases behind him. 

“The sun is so bright, m’lady.” he spins on his heel, clasping his hands in the small of his back. “I thought I might enjoy the day after such a barbaric storm.” 

Chloe approaches, hands entwined primly against her stomach at the edge of her corset; its muted blue matching the sky of an overcast day. He has never understood the purpose a corset served, beyond giving a lady of the court a most unnatural shape; satin and whale bone pressing flesh until it conforms, ribbons pulled tight so nothing can move. 

“I never quite understood the purpose of those loathsome corsets.” he tips his head, regarding her with eyes reflecting the brilliant blue sky stretching out into nothingness above them. “They appear uncomfortable and unnatural.” 

“And, they are, sir, but a certain modicum of propriety is expected of a lady of the courts.” there’s a certain humor in her voice, a playful chastisement, a falsely stern reminder that there are certain rules she must follow. He knows the rules, of course, as they apply to his appearance before those of higher ranking, in the military and the court. 

“My apologies, Lady Chloe.” his eyes close and he tilts forward in a bow of sincere apology. “I merely seek comfort for the ladies in my company.” 

“I appreciate the sympathy, Sir James.” she offers an appreciative smile, returning his bow with a curtsy of her own. His eyes are slate, today, a subdued shade of blue that reflects his mood; battle-worn and exhausted. “You think heavy thoughts.” 

“How can you tell?” 

“Your eyes have borne your burden, soldier.” a tilt of her head tips copper curls over one shoulder, nestles the silky burnished ringlets into the warm curve of her neck, where her pulse thrums beneath the skin. His stomach twists with want; a fierce desire to press his face into that heat, feel the hot race of her pulse and breathe in the scent of her hair. Would it be as sweet as she? Would it flood his senses the way her personality had? Or, is it as soft and subtle as the shades of her dress, calming the lashing storm, and encouraging him closer. “You have a storm raging and on such a splendid day. So much warm sunshine but you - you appear trapped in an icy flurry. Why?” 

“I find myself thinking improper thoughts.” James relinquishes a vague description of his thoughts; needn’t go too far, a lady need not hear of the true nature of his innermost thoughts. “Thoughts I need not burden you with.” 

“I suspect our thoughts are too similar in nature to not entwine in some way.” she corrects his assumption that she will be burdened by the weight of thoughts not her own. “When two people are of the same mind, it is an inevitability that the minds will find each other and become indelibly blemished, the way a cliff face bears evidence of the tide long after it has receded, a mark etched onto a face far more permanent than yours or mine.” 

“Is that proper lady for ‘speak, pup’?” James teases gently, barely ignoring the painful clench in his chest at the nickname he hadn’t heard since he was a boy with his nose buried in a book. His mother had given him that nickname because he’d been a scrap of a child; all sparkling eyes and a veritable mop of soft black curls, scampering around underfoot waiting to be tossed a treat. 

Chloe giggles and it’s a soft thing but tinkling like bells, bright and warm and the squeezing tension in his chest finally releases. “If you wish it to be, kind Sir.” 

“My thoughts are not as kind as I.” James declares solemnly, speaking as though it is fact and not an opinion formed in the bias of having to be in his own head far more than he would prefer. “Unsavory thoughts have no place with a lady of the court.” 

“So, I am not a lady of the court today.” she tells him simply. “I am just Chloe. A female companion, in whom, you might find similarities you would not find with others.” 

James just hums in thought for a moment, before he settles his gaze on the woman before him. She cuts a feminine, delicate figure before him with thin shoulders and a narrow waist and long, lean arms. He hasn’t the slightest idea what her legs must look like beneath layers of fabric, but he can only imagine them to be as graceful and feminine as the rest of her. He wonders for a moment how she would feel in his arms; small and soft and warm or is she firm and unyielding? 

“I fear we are not as similar as you would like.” he finally breathes, averting his eyes to the damp grass, rapidly drying in the sun, the bright, velvet green seeming to fade before his eyes. “I fear my darkness may frighten you.” 

“Allow me to see and judge for myself.” Chloe’s request is almost undeniable, with the gentle sweetness of her voice. “I do not like to be denied on the basis that I am seen as some delicate, fragile little thing that might break. I am no more delicate than you, Sir. I suspect I am even less so.” 

“I think about death.” he caves with a long exhale; a sharp release of breath and emotion. The fear and the animosity he’s developed toward his knighthood and his brothers in arms. He knows that they will not defend him, or he thinks he knows. “I think about how when my time comes, I will not die in the comfort of any home, I will die on wet grass, or maybe mud. Only, ‘tis not rain that will soak it through. It will be blood and bone. I think about how my knighthood is supposed to be some noble honor but I think it is only a death sentence.” 

“It does not have to be.” Chloe informs him quietly. 

She knows the truth all too well. 

Knighthood, especially those deigned in her father’s court, were very much pledging their lives away for the kingdom. While Chloe strongly disagreed with her father’s willingness to wage war on their enemies instead of seeking an alternate route to peace, he was unwilling to budge on his stance, though it meant bloodshed. 

_Treaties have their place, Chloe. It is unfortunate that I have no place for them in my court._

“I fear it is, though.” he admits with a huff. “I am not foolish enough to believe my fellow knights will defend my honor, the way they defend their own.” 

“If they cannot perform their duties to protect their own honor, how could they possibly defend yours? Or, do you think your life such a burden that is too much to be worth protecting?” 

The question hangs heavy in the air. 

The weight of it is almost too much for either to fathom the answer before it could settle upon them and crush them both into dust. Does he really think his life is worth so little that they would think nothing of letting him die in a pool of his own blood, trace a path to death in their own wreckage. 

“I do not think I am a burden anyone wishes to bear.” James frowns, looking back down at the wet grass and earth. The earth is soft, water-logged, and were he to look closer, he’s certain there would be worms squirming beneath the surface. It remains healthy, alive, despite the brutal beating inflicted. He is not the earth, though, not the ground or the sky, he is a separate entity and if he were to take the same beating, he would surely perish. “I have not thought myself worthy since the passage of my mother from this life into whatever lays beyond, which is surely kinder than the fate I have endured.” 

“You greet death as a friend?” 

“I greet death as an inevitability.” James tells her in that matter-of-fact tone that all of the knights develop when speaking of death. “Inevitabilities are, by definition, unstoppable, so is it not better to make friends with them than to stand as a barrier through which they will force themselves through to ensure the scripts of fate are read as written?” 

“You fear death.” 

“All that and you conclude that I fear death?” a breathless laugh of disbelief. 

“Well, you do not believe in God, so you claim, yet you think whatever lies beyond this life is a kinder fate than the one you have been dealt.” Chloe points out the obvious contradictions in his beliefs. “You do not greet death as an old friend, you see it as an inevitability. You are either afraid of death, sir, or the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever known.” 

James tips his head, an incredulity in his stormy eyes. “Why would I befriend a fear m’lady?” 

“Because, I find scary things to be far less scary when you befriend them.” Chloe smiles and it is graceful and sweet and a little teasing. “Like you, sir.” 

“Me?” James is righteously - although, falsely - scandalized by the idea of his reputation in the king’s court as being one of a brooding teenager. 

“Your reputation precedes you, Sir.” Chloe informs him with another one of those brilliant smiles; all baby pink lips and white teeth and his stomach twists at the visual. 

“What reputation is that, ma’am?” James’ eyes spark, no longer a stormy blue but bright, vivid shade of blue. A veritable field of irises, so saturated in their pigmentation, the flowers appear to blur together into swirls of blue, as though a paintbrush had lain too heavily in the color before it was twirled across a canvas. 

“That you are brooding and distrustful - a man with no voice, unless you can offer a scathing remark to your fellow soldiers.” Chloe’s direct response should hurt his feelings, he supposes, but it is not exactly a surprise - his fellow soldiers do little to hide their distaste for him, with the exception of an older lad, someone with a few more years on him than James had. He’d taken the young knight under his wing and had made a proper fighter out of him, gifting him with the dagger sheathed on his hip. He’s just reached for the leather sheath on his hip, tracing the pad of his finger along the grain when Chloe’s voice touches him, again. “But, I do not view you as such.” 

“Oh?” the leather is soft, supple, under his touch and it grounds him - keeps him from choking on words. 

“I think you read books better than people, and I think you are far more intelligent than you allow people to see.” 

“I was never going to be the heir to my father’s kingdom - I am not the first born son - so all I had was books and languages. My mother was fluent in many languages.” 

"Est-ce que tu parles français?" Chloe inquires in a slightly broken accent. It’s sweet, endearing, and he can only nod in response to her question. “What else?” 

“I learned to read most languages but Greek and Spanish are the only others I’m proficient in getting my tongue around.” James answers her question with a soft smile at the memory of his mother. “Greek was my mother’s preference. It is the most fun to speak, she would say, lots of clicking and tongue movement. She said it sounded like riding a horse.” 

Chloe cannot help but giggle at that - Greek is terribly fun, both to speak and to listen to, and up until now, she had not made the connection that it resembled the sounds one might make while riding a horse, the cues used to control the animal but she supposed it did. 

“And, Spanish?” 

“Oh, uh, my mother had roots in Spain, she spoke fundamental Spanish. I picked up on the language fairly easily.” he explains, averting his eyes from the pale porcelain of her face to the soft earth beneath his feet. It pains him to speak of his mother, it pulls bile from his stomach, and clenches his heart in his chest. “It is all about the tongue - as with any language. Spanish requires a certain movement that feels a bit funny.” 

“También hablo español.” Chloe shocks James with her softly spoken Spanish. “Pero debe sonar especialmente bonito viniendo de un apuesto caballero como tú.” 

James wonders if Chloe can hear his heart thumping a heavy tattoo against his ribcage, hear the way breath catches in his chest, or the soft gasp when her comment translates in his head. A compliment offered to a man who hears far too few of them. His bashful smile is met by her radiant light of a grin and he brings a hand up to absently rub the back of his neck as he looks down at the wet grass beneath his feet. Chloe merely eyes the horizon, a soft smile tugging at her lips. 

She would need to speak to a tutor, soon; she should very much like to brush up on her Greek.


	3. The Armor of The Unknown

“You’ve been staring at that dagger for ten minutes, Jacob.” her observation comes with a tilt of her head and a poke of his bicep with the capped tip of her neon pink highlighter. “Are you alright?” 

Jake’s eyes have gone heavy, half-lidded and a tempestuous palette of varying shades of blue and gray. He doesn’t respond to her initial poke so she juts her marker into his bicep, again, giggling at the target shaped dimple in his skin. “Wha..?” he finally comes to with a shake of his head, tipping it just enough to catch a glimpse of her, standing beside him, highlighter in hand, poised to pok him again. “Oh. Hey sweetheart.” 

“Hi.” Cassie’s voice is soft enough to ease him back from wherever his brain had taken him, without bringing him back to earth with a jarring shock. “Are you okay?” 

“I don’t know, kiddo.” Jake breathes, looking down at the dagger resting in his palm, fingers curled with an odd familiarity around the hilt. The blade is in decent shape to be as old as it is, but Cassie still tastes rust when she looks at it. But, the smell of fresh rain lingers in her olfactory; crisp and clean. “Cass, what happens to you when you look at this thing? You said something earlier…” 

“The word dagger tastes like rust- like burned orange and copper but the green sort of wet copper.” Cassie practically gags on the words. “But, it smells like rain. The afterimage of a storm.” 

“I wonder if the guy who carried this thing died in the rain?” Jake gives the dagger a hefty spin in his palm, raising a mischievous eyebrow at Cassie. 

Cassie giggles, shoving at his side playfully. “Don’t be ridiculous, Stone!” 

Jake tugs his bottom lip between his teeth to bite back the laughter in his chest, to hold back the grin that could very well split his face in two. The eye contact burns between them, fries the air with something so electric, Cassie can feel it all the way down her spine and the hair on the back of Jake’s neck stands at attention, both of them barely containing a shudder, when the moment is broken. 

“- Jacob Xavier Stone and Cassandra Mae Cillian, get your asses in here!” 

Oh. 

Eve’s tough Mom voice. It’s appearance was a rare occasion, and not a particularly blessed one, but everyone in the library knew to listen. With a defeated sigh between them, they both head for what had been lovingly deemed the bullpen, to find out what had brought out Eve’s motherly side. 

“I think it’s a terrible idea, Flynn.” Eve is hissing at her companion, who looks a little less the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Indiana Jones, he thinks himself, and a little more the wild eyed stark raving lunatic, Jake was convinced he actually was when he spoke of the library and all the magic within. 

“If they don’t, then they’ll never know the truth!!” Flynn argues at a volume much, much louder than Eve’s frustrated hiss. “They’ll never fulfill their true destiny!” 

“I’m sorry, what - um, what’s going on?” a quick headcount on Cassie’s part produces a pale, frustrated Eve, a resigned Jenkins, Ezekiel, who might actually be more confused than her and Jake, and Flynn’s raging enthusiasm. 

“The Armor of the Unknown.” Jenkins points to the corner where a half-finished suit of armor stood on its pedestal, odd, misshapen shadows falling where the light can’t quite reach, matching the expression of Jenkins’ face. Flynn’s enthusiasm clearly isn’t shared by the library’s caretaker, and the resignation and indignation gives his five o’ clock shadow more depth, clenched jaw a touch more defined by emotion and stubble. “The breastplate has been missing for centuries. Flynn thinks you and Mister Stone are the ones destined to find it.” 

“Why us?” Jake tips his head, confusion knitting his eyebrows together. He’d noticed the incomplete armor time and time again, but had never given it much consideration. Without the breastplate or the helmet, there wasn’t much to consider about it. It was certainly Arthurian in age, Jake was sure of that, but Jenkins had insisted that it was not his armor. 

_ I assure you this is built for a man of shorter stature than I.  _

“That is for you and Cassandra to find out.” Eve fills in the glaringly obvious blank in Flynn’s grand idea with a roll of her eyes; his delusion of grandeur was quickly becoming a point of contention between the pair. Jake would be surprised if they made it to Christmas before the whole relationship crumbled at their feet. 

“Well, I can see here, I’m not needed.” Ezekiel finally pipes up, the realization that he isn’t needed for this assignment spinning him on the heel of his brand new sneakers and has him heading for the nearest exit. “Call me if you need something stolen. I’m going get some of those tacos ‘Jassandra’ over there had for lunch.” 

“What is this all about?” Jake finally sighs when the kid is out of sight. Flynn still looks like a kid at Christmas, Eve is exasperated, and Jenkins is over it, complete with unnecessary adjustments of his lapels and eyerolls. He’s secretly searching for an escape route, maybe looking for an excuse to follow Ezekiel. 

Flynn’s rambling is nonsensical at best and could have been easily summarized by the closing statement; “I think Jake is a reincarnation of a knight of the round table.” 

There is a moment of silence while the information is processed. Cassandra pales, eyes wide and glassy, nearly lost to the oncoming fit of synesthesia that Jacob seems to barely have the wherewithal to even notice, much less help her through. His mouth is open in a perfect o-shape and his own eyes are widened considerably. 

"No, no I'm not!" 

"But, how do you know you aren't?" Flynn questions, pinning Jake to his spot with a glittering, erratic stare. He wants to knock the Librarian's lights out, but Flynn is too flighty, he'd be gone before Jake could curl his fingers into his palm and tighten his knuckles for a punch. 

" I don't think a lot of knights were into art." Jake's argument is weak, and later, when the red heat drains and the disbelief wears off, he'll shake his head at this. 

"Knights of the Round Table had all sorts of interests, Jacob." Jenkins supplies, but none of them are sure exactly what his intention is, whether it is to be helpful and reassuring or to reaffirm Jacob’s absolute denial. "King Arthur had a peculiar taste for strategies, collected all sorts of things about them. Employed ancient Egyptian methods within us, his own knights. There were several knights who formed collections within the court, stowing their prizes away in their bedchambers. Books, weapons, some even dried flowers for later study." 

Cassie giggles, high and cute, at the very idea of a knight tucking a flower away in his suit of armor to press it between the weight of heavy books and stones. “Maybe you were a flower collector in another life, Jake!” 

“Not helping, Cass.” Jake growls out of the side of his mouth; a low, playful noise but a warning. Any other time, he might play along, just to see how far she’ll take it, but he’s just not up to it, right now. 

Cassie frees another giggle from the tight squeeze of her anxiety riddled chest and settles back into Jake’s shadow, tentatively tucking herself behind his frame, and taking a deep breath. His cologne is spice and pine and it curls into her lungs like it belongs there, soothes the savage beast of synesthesia before any damage can be done. 

“Look, I’m not saying you are for certain, I’m just sayin’, you are the one the Library picked for this case. After all these years, why now?” Flynn poses as if he isn’t asking the world’s most unanswerable question. Why did the Library do anything it did? Why did it make any of the choices it made? 

Jenkins sinks deeper into the worn leather of his favorite wingback chair, absently thumbing the buttery chocolate upholstery and delicate gold brocade, happy to observe instead of participating in the chaos of the Annex. 

The normally composed Colonel Baird seeming to lose her cool and regain it, again, in twenty second intervals. Cassandra is still flushed, pale porcelain painted an uneasy red but the set of her mouth and the wide, glassy eyes make her expression unreadable. Flynn in still wild, a feral beast unleashed in a museum, that Jake is ready to tame with a well aimed punch. 

Jenkins is acutely aware of every person under his care, just as he had been his fellow knights. Whether it be Cassandra choosing tea over coffee when she needs her brain to  _ stop  _ or the tension straining, clinging to Jake when he's overwhelmed and exhausted, or when Eve is just done enough to welcome a stern hand over Flynn's errant ways, yanking him firmly back to reality. He's even aware of when Ezekiel has spent a little too much time with Excalibur, overly confident and utterly ostentatious in his sparring matches. 

Right now, though. 

Now, all he reads is a knot of confusion and tension and  _ something  _ that trembles in the wake of Flynn's, frankly, bewildering statements. Maybe it's fear, fear that Flynn's behavior isn't actually as erratic as it seems, that there's a method to his madness. There is, he knows, but he also realizes the tizzy that this has caused, the feathers it ruffled, and he needs to smooth it over before gifted art historian Jacob gives way to bar brawler  _ Stone,  _ and the Librarian ends up laid out flat on the floor. 

"Enough!" he finally brings an end to the tizzy, emerging from the corner where he keeps his chair. "Miss Cillian," She's the safest to address at this point, "I want you to take Mr. Stone home and I want you both to catch your breath and return tomorrow when you have had a chance to rest." 

Cassandra can only nod, eyes still wide, and she quickly latches onto Jake's elbow, "C'mon, let's go home. I'm tired and my head hurts." 

The shift is almost instant. Jenkins sees it in the twist of his torso and the tilt of his head, eyes flicking from Flynn to Cassie in an instant. His shoulders drop, turn into her, and he lifts an attentive hand to her face. A thumb under her eye and soft, “Cass?” 

“I’m just tired, Jake.” her voice is soft enough to only be heard by the art historian. 

“Okay, darlin’, let’s get you home.” Jake murmurs, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. He locks an arm around her waist and fastens her to his side, taking a moment to clear their departure with Eve, before leading her out. 

The last thing Eve hears as they brush past is Jake murmuring something to Cassie about peppermint tea before her attention is pulled back to Flynn pouting at Jenkins about letting them go. It is only when Jenkins hisses,  _ “They’re not to know, not yet, Mr. Carsen!”  _ that she really lets herself be pulled back into the conversation. 

“Know what, exactly?” 

  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Jenkins

"What if Flynn is right?" if she speaks it into existence, then they have to face it, and maybe - just maybe, she can keep Jake from denying it before they crash into it and both of them end up on the ass end of a Flynn Carsen scheme. "What if he's not crazy?" 

"What?" Jake cuts his eyes over to his best friend, curled into a tiny ball in the passenger seat of his truck, folded arms and pale knees tucked beneath her chin, a curtain of red curls falling over her elbows. "What are you talking about?" 

"What if he's not crazy, this time?" Cassie turns her head, resting her cheek on her folded arms. "What if you are the reincarnation of a knight? We know Jenkins is Galahad, what if you were a knight right alongside him?" 

"Wouldn't I remember it?"

"Maybe, maybe not, memories are fickle." a casual shrug, and she lifts a hand to tap the side of her head. "I don't remember anything before my brain grape unless synesthesia takes hold." 

"That - wait, what?" Jake pauses in whatever he was about to say, staring at her in disbelief - tossing some notion of grateful prayer to whatever deity happens to be listening that they're stopped at a red light. "You don't - you don't have any memories?" 

The startled deer-in-headlights look returns, embarrassed flush creeping up her neck. "I - the brain grape and synesthesia was too much. The doctors think I blocked out everything before my diagnosis to cope. Sometimes, the brain locks away memories to cope with new trauma." 

That makes sense. 

At least - in this instance, but what about a whole other life? A whole other identity that you don't remember living? Could the brain really be powerful enough to block it out, to rid itself of memories, just to be able to cope with whatever trauma comes at it, next? 

"I mean - Cass, yeah, that makes sense in this context but Flynn..." Jake's hands drop to the bottom of the steering wheel and his whole expression radiates the overwhelming doubt currently working up a storm in his head. "Sweetheart, Flynn thinks I lived a whole other life. Flynn thinks I was a knight. You heard that, right?" 

"Yes - I heard him just fine." Cassie answers without hesitation. 

The intonation of confidence, of belief that her best friend could be the reincarnation of one of Arthur's knights of the round table, it rattles around the cab of the truck, and quite frankly, it makes Jake's teeth hum, almost grit with irritation - he doesn't want to give Flynn's wild theories credence but Cassie does. 

But, Cassie is also hopeful, optimistic, and overall a brighter personality than he'd ever been. 

"And, you don't think he's wrong?" the question flies out of his mouth, well, no. It sort of clumsily rolls off of his tongue; a bumble bee letting itself fall off of a flower, pollen heavy and putting far too much trust in its ability to fly. His question is badly worded and his tone is baffled but tired, so tired. 

"Look, I know you and Flynn are very different people - " Cassie shifts around so her knee is tucked against the back of the seat, seat belt wound around her limbs awkwardly - painfully, really. Or, so it looks. "Flynn can be wild and it can be hard to take him at face value but usually, Jenkins reins him in. Don't you find it funny that he wasn't? He was offering facts that seemed to suggest he knew Flynn's theory held some sort of truth. You and Jenkins are a lot alike - you trust him, don't you?" 

"Cass..." 

"I know, I know - you don't trust anyone but Jake..." Cassie implores him to think about it. To give into the possibility for truth and let himself trust that Flynn isn't a total madman. There's so much left unsaid, so much she wants to tell him. That, maybe, it's his insistence on being distrustful that is making him doubt Flynn and not Flynn himself. Maybe, if he'd open up, and trust a little more, he might see where they're coming from. 

Jake sighs - defeated and desperate to change the subject. 

As much as he wants to snap - and, if she weren't Cassie - he definitely would have. But, she is who she is and as much as it irritates him to think about, he has to face facts - Flynn may not be entirely wrong. He may not be wrong at all, really, and that gets under Jake's skin, that thuds against his ribs. 

"I know, Cass." he absently reaches for her, squeezing the soft, peaches and cream flesh of her thigh. "So, we just see what he has to say?" 

"I think we have to." Cassie's expression doesn't make him feel better about the situation; the raised eyebrow and the tilt of her head, not quite pleading with him to go along with it, no matter how much he may not want to, but imploring, appealing to his softer side. 

"Okay." 

... 

" - Jake is a what?!" 

Jenkins lifts his chin, shifting his eyes to the painted ceiling of the Annex and inhaling deeply in an effort to maintain his composure. A lady with long copper curls and haunted eyes stare back at him, hunched over the fallen knight cradled so tenderly in her arms, a mop of black curls pressed to her chest, blue eyes staring up at her face. 

"A knight, Colonel." he releases the breath, straightening one index finger toward the ceiling, drawing her attention to the depiction of the death of a knight portrayed in delicate brush strokes above her head. "Does that knight look familiar?" 

Eve takes a moment to study. 

What had once been a disconnected puzzle of pictures takes a clear shape in mind; the blood gushing from beneath the armor, the mop of black curls, the big blue eyes, and the scar on Jake's hip he doesn't remember the story behind. 

_"Mama said it must be a birth mark," he'd explained to Cassandra, when a lift of his arms pulled his shirt up, and she'd tenderly thumbed the silver mark on his tan skin. "No one else has one but me."_

"And, the lady..." 

The porcelain skin, peaches and cream and a pretty pink flush, and blue eyes, haunted, like storm clouds on a summer day. The streak of tears disrupting the perfect complexion, fallen rain on fresh earth, a disruption to the way things should be. 

"Oh God..." Eve breathes when the pieces come together in her mind. "That's Cassandra." 

"In a round-about way," Jenkins is solemn, folding his hands against his stomach. "Colonel, I understand this is confusing but allow me to explain." 

"Please?" 

She prays to God that he is a fast enough talker to spit this story out before she faints because her heart is, quite literally, dropping rapidly into her stomach and she thinks a lack of oxygen might send her to the floor. 

"I am Galahad, as you know. Well, what you may not know is that Jacob was a knight in his other life, and - " 

"And, you knew him?" Eve can barely wrap her head around the story, much less the fact that Jenkins, the Library's beloved caretaker lived it. 

"As James, yes. And, Miss Cillian was his beloved, a lady of the court known as Chloe." Jenkins tells her almost apologetically, but with a fondness, almost a longing.

"Despite our best efforts, James was a closed book to most of the other knights, all of them, in fact, but Lady Chloe, well, he was an open book to her and she, to him."

"Like Jacob and Cassandra, of course!" Flynn snaps his fingers at the slowly dawning realization. "He could help her because - " 

"Because he knows her." 

"Now, only time will tell if he truly remembers it but James and Chloe had a rather messy love story," Jenkins continues on, despite the interruptions. The memories hammer an unsteady rhythm in his chest; his heart has longed for a love like this one, an eternal bond, like the one shared by the two Librarians. "They rarely saw eye to eye but they loved each other deeply. She thought him a hypocrite and he was a little apprehensive about rendezvousing with a lady of the court but he was besotted. He saw no other except for Chloe." 

"What happened?" Eve can barely breathe for the apprehension in her voice. There is so much about Jenkins' story untold, so much he's almost refusing to say that leads Eve to only conclusion - it didn't have a happy ending. 

"I am not at liberty to say at this particular moment, Colonel, only that it is our duty to ensure Mister Stone and Miss Cillian remember who they were and come together as they are meant to do," Jenkins brushes off her question, but still addresses the apprehension tightening her whole body. "It was fated long before you or I ever came to be and it will be fated long after we are gone that in this life, in every life, past, present, and future they shall be tied together with a bond beyond what we can understand." 

Eve sighs. 

This is out of her hands, clearly, but one thing is definitely not - hope. 

"For their sake, I hope this life has a happy ending." 

**Author's Note:**

> The French is literally just asking him if he speaks French. The Spanish translates to, "I speak Spanish, too, but it must sound especially nice coming from a handsome gentleman like him."


End file.
